Don't Leave Me Behind
by Ravenlocks303
Summary: Post Reichenbach fall, John finally gets the guts to go back to 221B. Stumbling upon a note left behind from Sherlock, it is up to John (with a bit of help from Mycroft) to save Sherlock in time. JohnLock (eventually)
1. The note

It's been a year since Sherlock jumped off the rooftop. It's been a year since John Watson had started his endless pain, grief and sorrow. It's been a year since John lost his best friend.

DI Lestrade walked up to John's flat, a couple roads down from Baker street. John hadn't been able to go back there. He couldn't stand being around anything that reminded him of Sherlock, or else he'd enter a state of depression once again. Lestrade had been the only thing keeping John grounded the last year, talking to him, making sure he ate and slept. John was grateful that he still had a friend, but he wasn't Sherlock.

No one could ever replace Sherlock. No one could ever be so smart, deductive, arrogant, sneaky or, surprisingly, the best friend in the whole world. Lestrade had returned to work a month ago, but still kept a watch on John, peeking in once in a while. Lestrade knocked and John answered with a weak whimper from inside, telling Lestrade it was open.

The flat was a disaster. John had anger problems, but it hadn't been so bad last time. John was losing ground again. Lestrade found John curled up in a ball in the corner of the dark welcome room, dimly lit from the flickering telly.

"John? Are you alright?" Lestrade asked gently. John gave a halfhearted grunt. "John, listen, you have to try to move on, you can't spend the rest of your life like this."

"Why not?" John whimpered and buried his face in his hands.

"John, today you're going to come with me to Baker Street. We're going to see Mrs. Hudson. She is very lonely and quite sad that you left without warning or anything."

"I…. I can't…" John cried.

"It's okay to cry, to let it out. You need to talk to Mrs. Hudson and you need to go in your old flat, to say goodbye, to let go." Lestrade coaxed John. John stayed still.

John looked so much older than he had a year ago. Had put on a few pounds and his face was prickly with unshaven stubble. His soft brown eyes were raw from crying and Lestrade noticed a few more wrinkles.

Starting to get agitated, Lestrade raised his voice a little "Oh come on John, move on, grow up, find yourself a partner, live life outside of this lonely rat's den!"

John would've felt offended if he weren't so surprised by Greg sudden outburst.

"I'll be back in 15 minutes, clean up and be ready," Lestrade said gruffly and stalked out of the flat and closed the door behind him. John heard the rumble of the engine growing fainter as the car rolled down the street and out of sight.

John sighed and figured it wouldn't do much to disobey and that, yes, he needed to get a grip on himself, forget about Sherlock, Sherlock is gone and will never come back. A tear rolled down his cheek but he continued to persuade himself to stand up and robotically walk up the stairs to his bedroom. He changed into a fresh shirt, jumper and pants that were actually clean instead of strewn about the flat.

Walking into the bathroom. Shaving. Washing his face, wincing at the slight pain of friction against his sensitive skin around his eyes, still raw from crying. Looking and feeling a bit better, and cleaner, John walked down the stairs and made a cup of tea.

Remembering that Mrs. Hudson always offered tea, and John didn't want to be rude and refuse, so he dumped it down the sink and prepared himself for what he thought might be the second hardest thing since the jump, the first being the funeral and the speech he had to prepare for it. John breathed deeply. No thinking of that. That is the past, the past, I'm moving on now, yet he knew he would never forget the emotional scars and nightmares endured.

Dr. Watson composed himself as he walked to the door, out the door and into Lestrade's waiting car. The two men sat in silence as they drove to Baker Street. Memories of Sherlock and all the cases they (or rather Sherlock, John had stood there fascinated jotting notes) deduced. John internally slapped himself. No. This is to let go.

John trembled as he walked up to the door, accompanied by Greg, and took hold of the knocker. He stood there for a moment, and Lestrade put a comforting hand on Johns shoulder. John inhaled and knocked. One, two, three times.

Mrs. Hudson, a 60 year old landlady looked well for her age. Despite her sunken eyes and the loneliness she had to deal with she looked rather normal. Upon peeking out the door and seeing who it was, she threw open the door and wrapped John in a tight embrace.

"John, oh John why haven't you called, said anything, oh I was so worried, so lonely," She cried into John's shoulder. He felt tears coming but suppressed them, for now. He managed to mumble "I'm sorry," while wrapping his arms around her fragile small body.

"Oh do come in, I'll make you a cuppa."

John smiled to himself and slowly, one step at a time made his way into Mrs. Hudsons kitchen and sat down, Lestrade patiently walking alongside him. Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea in front of John and sat down herself.

"So, John, what have you been up to?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

John stifled a "Not much, you" and let Mrs. Hudson take the attention. John listened intentively while trying to block the memories threatening to take him down. The time Sherlock and John had gotten drunk and fell together on the stairs, all the times Sherlock had sat with his steepled hands inquisitively listening to clients while John tried to understand. John flatteringly complimenting Sherlock on his amazing deduction skills, Sherlock grinning at John when he finds a brilliant case. Sherlock's smile, Sherlock only ever really smiled to John and Mrs. Hudson. John's heart wrenched and he felt himself trembling. Mrs. Hudson broke John out of his trance by asking if he'd like to go see upstairs.

"Okay.." John sighed, he knew Lestrade brought him here to do so and John felt that this was the least he could do for the inspector after all Greg had done for him over the past year. John stood up shakily, Greg placed a reassuring hand on Johns back and guided him toward the stairs. Up the stairs. Slowly. One by one. On the top step Greg let go and left John to himself. John needed to be alone and was glad Lestrade understood.

John reached his hand out and turned the handle. Pushing open the door, imagining Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, complaining about crap telly. John smiled sadly. The flat looked the same, dust lining the surfaces, papers strewn across tabletops and Sherlock's, John's and the clients chair still in the same place.

A tear rolled down John's cheek as he ran his hand along the mantle place and splashed onto a blank envelope. What was strange though was the knife protruding through the envelope, sticking upright into the wood. Sherlock always stuck a knife in something frustrating, that he couldn't solve or understand, you get the idea. Odd, John thought. Perhaps he would try and solve the case himself to fulfill what Sherlock had started.

Pocketing the envelope, John walked around the flat, leaving Sherlock's bedroom alone. John had personally never seen the room, the door was shut and John left it that way, giving Sherlock privacy. Walking up the stairs, heart sinking, into his old room. Gathering a few special items- his notepad, a pen his sister Harry had got him, an old newspaper of a fantastic mystery he and Sherlock had solved a while back. Although the newspaper contained the story, memories of the little things on the investigation flooded john's mind. How Sherlock insulted the police, then utterly surprised them with the correct solution before much evidence was given, Sherlock's satisfied grin, the way he jumped happily up and down when he received the case, the soft violin playing at night. Salty tears streamed down Johns face and onto the floor.

John curled up on his bed, back home after saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and promising her to call at least once a month. He lay clutching the unopened envelope. Unopened? Why would Sherlock stab an unopened envelope? There was no way he could know who it was from, there was no writing on the front, the envelope was crisp and clean. That was weird.

Starting to get curious, John carefully opened the letter, it was addressed to John. A note?

 _Dearest John,_

 _I know this will come as a shock to you. I don't know how long it will be before you read this, a year perhaps. I'm sorry I had to leave this way, it was for your own safety, trust me I would never leave you if it didn't mean inflicting harm upon you. John you are the most important person in my life, and I want you to know that you are the bravest, kindest, best friend anyone could ever ask for. No. You're more. John Watson you keep me right._

 _Every night I'm gone I will think of you._

 _SH_


	2. Desperation

Every night I'm gone? John thought.

But that would imply that he's still capable of thoughts? John was so confused. Before Sherlock had left that fatal night he told John that if he ever needed help, Holmes was the one to consult. Sherlock was gone, and John had no idea if he was really dead or alive somewhere.

John didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, thinking. Holmes…. Then it struck him. Sherlock was not the only Holmes, there was Mycroft. John's heart leapt at the possibility of Sherlock being alive, but didn't allow too much hope, after all he hadn't heard from Mycroft, or anyone except Greg for a year.

Unable to calm down, John gave up on sleeping and threw on a jumper. The doctor walked out of his flat, down the street, turned, another street, and kept walking until he was at Mycroft's door. Despite the long walk, John felt alive and awake. The sun was just peeking out over the trees, making John aware of the approximate time. Mycroft must be up by now. John rapped at the door until Mycroft's assistant opened the door.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"I need to speak with Mycroft, now." John urgently replied.

"He's a little busy at the moment but please, come in, I'll send him out when he's available."

John was jumping in his seat in anticipation. No sooner had John begun to worry, that Mycroft came strutting out of his office. His expression blanked when he saw John. Worried? His face was masked again before John had come to a conclusion. "Yes?" Mycroft asked, not rudely.

"Where is he." John stated.

"I don't know what you mean,"

"You know who." John said flatly.

"I thought it pretty obvious he was in a grave as of a year ago." Mycroft responded.

John wouldn't give up. "No, somehow he escaped, I know he did!" To be honest, John didn't know, but he figured this was the only way to find out. If someone knew, it was Mycroft and John wasn't going to leave without the truth.

Mycroft's stern expression softened a little. "Very well, prepare yourself for this may not be so easy to hear."

John was a bit taken aback that Mycroft was warning him about feelings, being the machine-like person he is, except when around Sherlock, but that surprise was quickly thrown out the window and joy filled its place. Sherlock was alive! He was really alive! Johns heart pounded, his fingers fidgeted. Watson cleared his throat and managed an "I'm ready."

Mycroft inhaled and said "Eastern Europe."

When John looked lost, Mycroft proceeded to explain. "My brother has taken an undercover identity in Eastern Europe to dismantle Moriarty's network. Few people were made aware and for your own safety you were left in the dark. I presume by brother went against my advice and notified you somehow anyway."

John looked stricken. Europe? Moriarty? Alive. John shut his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He's all alone. He did this to protect who he cared about. That idiot! That stupid, stupid idiot. This was too much. John, holding back a sob, croaked out "Th… Thanks, I'll be on my way now."

"John?" John stopped, awaiting.

"John, he did it for you, Mrs. Hudson and Greg too, but mainly you. He said… He said when you figure it out, not to go looking for him, it might be too late. You'll be put in danger. Stay in London and have a life, forget about him."

Mycroft gave John a sad smile. John breathed, in and out, and walked out the door.

"I have a chopper waiting on the roof of your flat when you're ready." Mycroft called after John.

John's ears perked up. Sherlock was alive, and John could save him. Mycroft smiled. John hailed a cab and once back to the flat grabbed a bag and started packing. A few pairs of clothes, a flashlight, first aid kit, water. Hm. Not wanting to wait any longer John ran up the stairs, onto the roof and into the chopper.

"Ready Doctor?" The pilot's muffled voice shouted over the sound of the blades chopping the wind.

"Yes," John replied. But was he? Was he ready to put himself in danger? To see Sherlock? Yes. Sherlock was his best friend. He was undergoing who knows what to keep John out of harm's way. John realized he knew nothing of the whereabouts of Sherlock apart from Eastern Europe. As if the pilot could read John's mind, he said over the speakers "Ill drop you off 5 miles away from the hideout. North. Follow the road."

About halfway through the flight, John fell asleep. He dreamed about Sherlock, calling out for Johns help, and John, running towards him but not getting any closer. Sherlock was trapped in chains, desperately calling for John.

"Landing in 10 minutes."

John awoke flabbergasted and afraid. _Sherlock._ Heart racing, the helicopter descended and deposited John. "Good luck" the pilot said, and for the first time John saw who it was. "Mycroft?" "Save my brother." John gave a subtle nod and started walking down the deserted road, electricity tingling between his hands. The helicopter left John in a cloud of dust, flying out of sight.

Once the dust settled, John got a better look at his surroundings. The terrain was dry dust, parched hills rolling out into the horizon, spotted with stringy dead plants. The sun was just beginning to rise, giving John light and a slight bit of warmth in the cool air.

 _Alright._ John thought to himself. _So now I'm completely alone in the middle of nowhere, going to save someone who may or may not be dead in a highly secured den. Great._

John felt his coat pocket and, upon feeling a lump, remembered he had a gun, and instantly felt safer. Being a doctor and serving in the war gave him an advantage. He'd seen injuries and death. He had to cope with it. He knew how to break every bone in someone's body while naming them. He could save someone with injuries, help them, identify problems. But he wasn't made of metal. A bullet could pierce him and nothing he could do would stop it.

John was feeling better as he was reassuring himself he would be okay, come out of this alive with Sherlock, then he could return home. _And then what? Will anything be the same between you and Sherlock?_ Yes. Of course. John had been in trouble and Sherlock saved him, and vice versa, many times before. _Is this the same though?_ John shook his head, aware he just had a conversation with himself. John walked in silence. Not much longer, the doctor spotted the secret organizations hideout, carved in the side of a hill.


	3. going in

The door was recently painted a harsh beige to blend in with the dry surroundings. It was a small hut on the surface, assumingly leading down into a vaster network of tunnels and rooms. John took a minute to catch his breath, leaning against the shady side of the hut. The surface was rough but John didn't care, just thankful for the cool surface on his perspiring back. In, and out, inhale, exhale. John only now had time to think about what he was doing, and who for?

Did he forgive Sherlock for letting him grieve and mourn, depressed and on the edge of suicidal? No one had known, not Greg, or Mycroft or Molly, no one. The harsh, still healing scars ran up and down John's arms. When John first decided to go through with cutting himself, the blood poured out along, and with it came relief. I can join Sherlock, we can be partners again, happy again. When John wept that night, clutching his bleeding arms around his rocking knees, John started to have doubts. What if Sherlock was alive? What if I'm making a mistake? How will Greg react, and Mrs. Hudson? That night John had decided, was not the night. He faintly wrapped up his arms, cleaned up the fresh blood and spent the next few days still and silent.

Thinking about it now, John became angry with Sherlock. Inhale. _He made me do this to myself._ _No, I did this to myself. But he left. And he left a note for you, you idiot. It's your fault for not finding it sooner! He could be dead by now all because you were too chicken to go back. You didn't have faith in him._ Exhale. _I'll let Sherlock explain, then I'll decide how I feel._ John didn't want to admit to himself that he needed Sherlock. He wanted to believe he was strong and could take care of himself, but he knew Lestrade would especially counteract this claim.

John knew, John knew he needed Sherlock, he needed the danger, the action, the _living_. John had denied the fact that he needed Sherlock, bloody experiments and all. If Sherlock was alive, John would make sure he was found, that he knew about the grief he caused John, about everything.

Footsteps echoing inside the shed shook John from his trance. Thoughts of Sherlock clouded Johns head, and he longed for Sherlock's warm embrace, his grey-blue eyes staring at him, telling John that it's okay, he's okay. He missed that amazing brain, the one that could tell where someone had been based on a wrinkle in their shirt, what occupation they applied themselves from the state of one's hand, hiding behind a stern expression. Sherlock felt. John didn't know what he felt, or for whom, or why he never showed it purposefully, but the man had emotions.

Subtle clues like when a hint of panic crept into Sherlock's eyes when someone was in danger, especially John or Mrs. Hudson. John's mind slipped to when Moriarty made him a human bomb, and Sherlock had nearly become paralyzed. Sherlock ripping off the jacket, asking John frantically if he was okay, the stricken look in his eyes. Not long after, John had jumped on Moriarty, trying to give Sherlock an opportunity to run, to save himself. Sherlock had looked pained and his eyes softened, realizing the sacrifice John had been willing to make for him. What had been going through his head then? Can't. Think. Of. This. Now. Have. To. Focus. Sherlock might still be in danger. This thought snapped John back to reality.

The footsteps were getting closer, they were heading towards the door. Fearfully, John crept silently to the opposite side the door was on, his hand on his gun. If possible, he would try to avoid making loud noises (like a gunshot) that may alert other security. The door was obviously heavy and thick by the way it groaned when opened. John heard a man grunting as he pushed the door open and slam it shut behind him with a loud clang. John snuck a glance around the wall, heavily breathing with fear. He saw a middle aged man, thin and postured. John recognized the way he held himself, proud and confident, like how they were taught in the army.

The man must have spotted something in the distance, for he focused his perplexed gaze on a spot and started walking towards it. The sight must have been important, for the man started to jog and spoke formal and stern into the walkie talkie adjusted on his wrist. As soon as the man disappeared from view, John slid along the wall towards the door side. He heard a loud sound of metal and machinery from the other side of the hill. Two helicopters, three SUVs, camouflaged, raced toward the direction the previous man had run towards. John's heart stopped, sure he'd be spotted. Sweat broke out on his brow and he started trembling.

All except one vehicle continued its journey, one SUV stopped. Reversed towards the increasingly frightened John. _Don't Move. Stay still, lie. Make them believe you're part of them._ This was going to be difficult. This time it was a younger gentleman, maybe aged 23-24. John sighed, maybe it'd be easier to convince a younger man as opposed to a wiser, more experienced being. The young man approached John, both men stood up straight and proud. John took a chance and saluted the gentlemen who wore a few medals on his uniform.

The other man nodded, dismissing John, stand at ease. John dropped his hand, patiently awaiting his fate. But the other man just held out his hand, "Captain Kayzer. Nice to see one of the new boys out front eh?"

John figured they were recruiting, and Kayzer just thought he was one of them.

"Hamish Jamal. Indeed, sir." John replied and shook the Captain's hand. He couldn't reveal his real identity in fear of being recognized, who knows what they made Sherlock tell them.

"And whereabouts might you have come from lad?"

"Afghanistan sir."

Kayzer looked skeptical, but seemed to notice John's military posture and form, and accepted it.

"Very well, I will leave you to your duties. Franks spotted some hunting game, we take what we get down here eh." Kayzer seemed more relaxed, and John felt himself breathe again.

"Thank you sir."

Kayzer gave a nod and trotted back towards the awaiting SUV and drove off in a cloud of dust. John stood as still as a statue until the car was out of sight, faint gunshots could already be heard in the distance. John took his opportunity, turning the crank of the door. It reminded him of a pirate ships steering wheel, what with the spokes and such. Hearing a satisfying click, John pulled at the door, his arms threatening to fail him. Little by little the door opened and John slipped silently inside the dark place. Yep, stairwell. The stairs were molded out of the ground, hence its yellowy-beige color. John winced at the door loudly clambering shut behind him, praying no one could hear. Breathe in, breathe out. A faint light flickered at the bottom of the stairs, perhaps thirty feet down. One step at a time, John walked. He tugged his sleeves down, covering the edges of the cuts and provided slightly more warmth in the damp cool tunnel. He entered a passageway, lined with lit torches. Wooden doors exited from the hallway. Realizing that the captain and his group would return sooner rather than later, John sped up his walking.

John checked every door. Soon, he realized, that bedrooms were on the right side of this hallway. The simple rooms had similar features, dark, one thin bed, dresser and a table and chair. The other side of the hallway had a series of torture rooms complete with handcuffs dangling from the ceiling, various whips and weapons lay neatly organized on a table, a few stained red from rust and blood. John gagged, hoping none of the blood was Sherlock's. _Sherlock please, show yourself, be here please._ But no such luck was presented. This tunnel continued for quite a way, finally splitting into a T formation. Left or right. Left, John decided, might lead to cells or more torture rooms. Sadly these were the most likely places Sherlock may be held. He checked every room, nothing. Crap. Where to now?

John heard voices coming down the hallway, two pairs of feet, two deep male voices chuckling. They stopped when they saw John. Dressed in his coat and regular clothing, the two men looked John up and down.

"Undercover" John cleared his throat and asked "Do you know where I may find a Sherlock Holmes in captivity? I was asked to deliver a message from Captain Kayzer."

The men nodded and pointed in the opposite direction John had headed. "5th door on your left" the older one gruffly stated, and the men continued to talk. John nodded and started walking away from the men. Sherlock was alive. He was close. He was here. He's alive. He's close. He's here. John's heart pounded. First door, John's hands started trembling. Second door, his eyes blinked twice as often. Third door, his legs were tingling. Fourth door and John was dying in anticipation. He stopped in front of the fifth door and placed his shaking hand on the smooth bronze handle.

Please review! Constructive criticism welcome. Working on new chapters, if you have any suggestions please let me know.


	4. What Have I Done

_I'm doing Sherlocks point of view now as of request from paula. (Thanks for the suggestions for future chapters ;) Please review, constructive criticism and suggestions welcome. )_

 _One Month ago_

 _Sh_ erlock sat in the corner of his tiny cell in the jail-like room. Stubble lined his jaw and his bloodshot eyes were raw from constant sobbing. His throat was hoarse and throbbing from screaming, the scars on his back fresh from the daily torture routine. His voice just a whimper now, "john…. John please come. John what have I done."

In his head, John sat with him, his arm draped over Sherlock's shoulder, whispering that it was all right, he could go home, and everything would be fine. These hallucinations were normal, and incorporated themselves into Sherlock's daily routine. Wake up. Eat a piece of bread and water. Go to the torture room, shackle his hands to the ceiling and let the pain begin. Whips, knifes, rusty nails, heated spokes, it was agonizing. _Please John come please._ Sherlock lay on the cold cement, caked with his dried blood.

 _Nononoono I have to keep control. Oh I know, I'll pretend to talk to John and that will make me feel better._ Sherlock was mocking even himself now. Not a good sign. Despite the sarcasm in his mind, Sherlock actually did have a hallucination play out in his mind.

 _John bursts open the door and runs for Sherlock, keys jangling in his hands. Jail cell opening, Sherlock looks up with his stormy grey eyes and takes in the sight of John, his John. John leans down beside Sherlock and embraces him in the warm, emotional way John hugs. Sobbing on each other's shoulders they sit there for a while, holding each other, soaking in the presence of the other. Sherlock murmurs creakingly into John's ear that he'll never leave John again. Never. John stay. John…_

And the John in his mind faded. Sherlock started to have a panic attack. No! No! John John John! Sherlock tugged at his greasy, tousled hair and clawed at his eyes, sinking to his knees screaming the name of his friend. It hurt his throat but the pain seemed to slip his mind. Continually screaming, clanging the bars, pacing ferociously. A guard came in, yelling at Sherlock to pipe down but Sherlock couldn't stop. The guard stuck a Taser through the bars and struck Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock lurched back and fell to the floor, a single tear streaking down his cheek as the world became dim and suddenly black.

Cool water splashed down on Sherlock's face. "Wakey Wakey! Get up you lazy arse!" A harsh voice yelled in Sherlock's ear. Silently, in his thin shirt, now soaked, and long black pants he stood. Expression taunt and grim, Sherlock let himself be led to the torture room, which quickly became his 'second home' here. Wrists already red and raw, the handcuffs just added insult to injury. Plastic wire held Sherlock up to his spot dangling from the ceiling, Sherlock hung like a dead fish drying. His torturer wore a black mask and all dark clothing. A 25 year old male, experienced in handling weapons and hand to hand combat, has a family he's providing for. Sherlock deduced.

"What shall we start with today hmm?" The man inquired. "How about this beautiful longsword. You should feel honored that this blade will be tainted with your blood." Sherlock sneered, struggling, which only made the bindings cut deeper. The torturer stood in front of Sherlock, inspecting his prickly face. "Ah, it's a shame that your handsome face is so… prickly, drawn and tired. Maybe I can help you out hmm?" Sherlock tried to shake his head but he couldn't, his head just lolled on his neck. The sword stopped short of Sherlock's face, then the cool metal was touching his face, shaving of the hairs, not kindly, Sherlock soon felt the too familiar trickle of blood down his jaw. He shuddered.

The sword drew away. "Too cold for you, eh? Perhaps I'll heat this baby up." Sherlock trembled, remembering the sensation of burning metal pressed against his flesh, his pulse quickened. The soft orange glow lighting up the room from the torch on the wall soon held another purpose. The glowing blade approached Sherlock and the tip pressed against one of his ribs, drawing a bit of blood before the pierce burned shut, leaving its mark. The blade found its way around Sherlock's helpless form, desperately shouting John's name.

The torturer sat down after a while. "Now, tell me, who. Is. John."

"No..." Sherlock weakly replied, and the torturer tutted and picked up the whip.

Fresh scars on his back, Sherlock couldn't lean up against his cell wall. Instead he sat in the middle, curled up in a ball, reciting everything he knew about John, making sure he wouldn't forget.

 _John likes to read. John likes to blog, John had a blog about him and me and our adventures. John likes tea. John loved it when I deduced random facts from little evidence._

Sherlock smiled at this, desperately wishing John were here to tell him to be strong, to keep his brilliant mind occupied. Sherlock looked for anything. Crack in the ceiling- 2 years old, caused by gunshot. Who shot a gun in this cell? He wondered. He started drifting off to sleep without his usual dinner of potatoes and a sliver of fatty meat.

The next morning, Sherlock heard a rumbling outside the jail room doors, perhaps a troop was departing. No one came to torture him that day. No one came to bring him food. Was this is? Did they figure I'm not going to talk and just leave me here in this cell to rot and die?

He started to panic. _I can't die here. I can't. Have to see John. Have to tell him I'm sorry. Have to be there for him. Mycroft said that I leaving would hurt him. How is he? Is he okay? Has he gone back to 221B? Has he got my note? Is he looking for me? Don't be an idiot, of course he won't come. You hurt him, left him there like a useless pet. He doesn't know I saved his life by doing this. If only he knew. If only I could tell him. If only I could see him._

He had no strength left. He lay with his stomach down, face buried in his arms. _What have I done._

To ease his mind, Sherlock began to think of ways to make it up to John.

 _I'll take him out to dinner?_ No we do that all the time. _I'll play Cluedo with him?_ Sherlock smiled at the memories. _I'll tell him every night how sorry I am, beg on my knees for his forgiveness, hold him near until he walks way. I'll do what he says, what he wants. I'll stay away from drugs, I'll grab a pint with him, I'll do anything._ He'll do anything. Anything to be a part of John Watson's life, whatever way he wants him is accepted.

Wet tears found themselves making a small puddle under his bloody cheek, stinging his cuts. _Oh what have I done?_

Rocking back and forth, Sherlock closed his eyes and decided to take the time to rest. The next morning the torturer walked in. "This is getting boringggg." Sherlock scoffed at the man in the mask. "How can I make this more interesting?" The man thought aloud, talking in a playful voice. "Ooooh I know! Come with me." He smirked and grabbed Sherlock by his arm and dragged him out the door. Past the torture room. _What is he going to do?_ Passing all the torture rooms and into a polished room with a screen, a desk and two chairs.

"Have a seat Mr. Holmes" he sneered. Sherlock sat, attaching his hands to the handcuffs himself sighing. Sherlock slouched as the man stood up and started pacing. "Why aren't you torturing me." Sherlock blatantly asked. "Oh don't worry, we'll get to that in a moment. You see, I had some people search you up last night. Bit of a celebrity eh?" Sherlock stiffened. "Oh you were good, a great detective, and your sidekick John. John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, found his blog. You two had quite the connection, sounded like he admired you from the way he described you." Sherlock trembled at the sound of Johns name. "Keep John out of this." He said, almost pleading. "How can I leave him out of this when I hear you screaming his bloody name constantly, even in your sleep you say his name!"

Sherlock flushed at this, but quickly regained his façade. "There's nothing you can do, he's safe in London with protection." Sherlock looked worried despite his firm tone.

"Oh I don't have to do anything, you see, you've already done enough damage to him, and he'll do worse to himself. All. Because. Of. You." Sherlock whimpered.

"And I'm going to make you watch."

The screen then lit up, showing a pale image of a scrawny John, curled up on the corner of his room. _He's not at Baker Street?_ This stung Sherlock's heart, but he understood. The video showed _Live_ in the corner. A live video. Of John? But how? Sherlock's deducing stopped when the door of John's flat opened. Sherlock's breath caught, but it was just Graham, or George, no, Greg, yes. Greg. Greg walked over to John and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. How Sherlock wished he was there to comfort John, to tell him he's okay.

Lestrade put a plate of food- toast and tea- on the floor next to John, and left with one word- "Eat."

A few minutes later the image showed John, trembling John, getting up and leaving the room. _Bathroom?_ But he returned shortly with an object in his hand. _What is that?_ Sherlock's heart beat faster, faster, racing against his chest. His eyes widened in fear and he watched with a stricken face as he watched John put a knife to his wrist.

The image cut off, leaving Sherlock with a tear in his eye, his voice a whisper. "John…"

Only now did he notice the torturers face, actually looking a little sympathetic.

"Erm, to be honest I wasn't expecting that to go down that way, just wanted to show you what state you put him in. Well, I guess that did show but…." Sherlock blocked out his voice, his mind blank, completely blank. _I have no purpose without John. Could it be possible he's alive? But his face- Oh God his face looked so sunken, so full of grief._ Sherlock didn't speak, didn't protest when he was put back in his cell. Just sat, sat and cried and thought, _what have I done?_


	5. Getting Out

Thanks for the great reviews! And to answer your question, yes Johnlock is coming because I LOVE IT … when? We'll have to see ;)

Please please review, it means so much and helps a lot for encouragement and inspiration. Suggestions welcome!

Switching back to John's POV this chapter

 _John_

John's handle on the door knob increased in pressure. _Damn this_. He opened the door to a series of cells lining the walls. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "Sherlock?" Nothing.

"Did you really think that you could walk in here, take your friend and leave?' A deep voice growled behind him.

John froze, stuttering. "I…I I Don't erm… don't know what… you mean."

"Wow you really are oblivious. John Watson."

This is bad, really bad, John thought. The man strided towards him and every instinct told him to move, to fight. But John didn't move, _Sherlock could be dead. He could have been lying, those men. Damn this._

John dodged the man's punch and pressed his fingers into the man's pressure point on his neck. The man went limp. _I guess that took him by surprise._ John scoffed. _Amateur._ John dragged the body into a cell and grabbed his Taser gun and keys before closing the door and locking it. _Now what? They know who I am, Sherlock might not be here. Crap._

Before leaving, John checked all the cells to make sure they were empty. Slipping out the door, he tried to act professional, like he was on duty. He tried to inconspicuously peek his head into every door he passed, deeper into the maze. Behind one door he heard ragged breathing, a whip crackling. _Poor sod's getting beat up in there._ John started to continue his mission but he heard something. He froze. His blood turned cold and he couldn't move. He was stuck to the floor, blank.

"JOOOHN." The curdling cry of a broken man's voice echoed in the room behind the door. _Sherlock. It's Sherlock behind that door._ "JOOHN." The screaming became a desperate plea as the sound of a cracking whip threatened to overcome his voice. Crack. Crack. The whip continues, the voice got quieter, pleading. The screaming stopped. The torturer, supposedly a man, spoke harshly. "Passed out again, weak B****rd." Chains unlocking, footsteps approaching. John's heart raced- no time to think about Sherlock being alive, what this could mean.

 _I'll still get to see those cheekbones, those beautiful, cloudy eyes, the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes. No! No time for this! No anger right now, no sappy feelings. Get safe first._

John pressed against the wall beside the door, tazer in hand. The door opened. John's pulse stopped as he swung up hand out and stuck the tazer in the guy's neck. Both men jolted and the victim fell limp. _I can't keep doing this._ John thought as he dragged the two unconscious bodies into the torture room. Before anything else, he checked Sherlock's pulse. Alive, breathing. John didn't want to let Sherlock go ever again, but It wasn't safe. Not yet. The torturer- a young man, started to open his eyes, John quickly sprained his ankle so he wouldn't be going anywhere.

John chained up the man, slicing a rusty knife across the man's stomach and back for hurting his friend, letting all his past rage out. John had at one point wanted to punch Sherlock for being alive, but all that rage left while beating up this man. All the anger melted through the heat of his punches to the man's jaw, and the jabs to his ribs. Everything- his rage, anger and energy all slipped away and he slumped against the wall where he placed Sherlock. The younger Holmes looked awful, stringy cuts down his beautiful jawline, purple bruises spotted along wherever John could see, which wasn't much because Sherlock had still his clothes on. The back of the shirt was probably ripped due to the whips, and the blood pooling around the limp body.

 _I need to get out of here._ John shakily stood up. This was too much at once. Too much. He needed to go home, to 221B. _But I don't live there anymore._ _Screw that I live there, it's my flat too, plus Sherlock will need help recovering._ John went back and forth in his head. _He almost made you kill yourself. You should be mad. But I bet he did it for good reasons. Doesn't change what you felt. I'm moving back. I need him._ John's superiority won and he realized he was pacing.

"Sherlock?" John wiggled his friend's shoulders slightly, not wanting to cause any more pain for the poor man. Sherlock stirred. "Ah. John, right on time. What shall we discuss today?" _He thinks I'm a hallucination. …? He sees me every day? He thinks of me?_ John blushed. He tried to work this to his advantage. "Um, John, why am I here, and why is my torturer suspended in the air like a piece of drying meat." Sherlock squinted, one of his swollen eyes twitched.

"You're getting out of here mate, c'mon, stand up, you don't have long." John said, hoping Sherlock doesn't realize he's real, that might induce him into shock and that wouldn't be the best thing at the moment.

"Why?"

"I'm waiting at home for you, at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's waiting too, we miss you. Come home." John tried.

"Sherlock started sputtering and a tear fell down his cheek. "No, no, there's no point, you're dead, you killed yourself, because of me." Sherlock buried his face in his hands and started sobbing. "It's all my fault."

 _What? How did he know about my suicide attempt? Doesn't he know I'm still alive?_

"No mate, I'm alive and I'm waiting. You were too caught up in pain to think about all the possible endings to that situation. Don't make me get angry." Because now John was actually getting frustrated. Sherlock whimpered, "no…"

"Alright, get up" John said, pulling Sherlock's ear. "Owww, I thought hallucinations didn't cause pain!" Sherlock exclaimed, giving in and standing up. "I see your imagination have improved then."

Grumbling, Sherlock walked to the door, stumbling as he went, John stood at the side, following and instructing the injured man, blocking out everything else right now. "Open the door." And Sherlock did. "Follow me." John demanded, leading the way out that he remembered. _Thank God for the army, or I wouldn't be leaving this place._ John tried to walk lightly, afraid that someone might hear the painful croak of Sherlock's heavy breathing. Up the stairs, out the sunlit doorframe and out into the barren landscape. _"This was almost easy—"_ John's thoughts faltered, hopes dismissed as a line of troops creating a half moon around them crouched, guns pointed toward them.

Kayzer stood, in front, shaking his head. "Foolish, foolish and dumb. Didn't even try to change your looks. Foolish." He almost looked disappointed, but that look was quickly diminished with a smirk. "Did you really think I was that stupid?"

Sherlock looked at what he thought was hallucination John, looking petrified. Sherlock mirrored his look, both men raised their arms above their heads and knelt. The captain approached them, slamming the butt of his gun against John's head then kicked him over into the dust, barely conscious. His vision spotted but he held on. Immobile John lay while the Captain walked over to Sherlock, who looked away from John, still thinking it was a trick of his mind. "And as for you, you've done enough around here.

The captain loaded his gun. "It's a shame, I think he really liked you, you might have had a future" he said to a perplexed Sherlock. "He was my friend." Sherlock just assumed they meant John, back at home. _Home._ "It's also a shame that you're never going to see him again," he said with a sly grin.

John tried to sit up, do anything but he couldn't move. Before blacking out, he heard a single gunshot.

Please review, new chapter hopefully coming soon. Don't fret too much, ;). Sorry this chapters a bit shorter, lemme know what you think.


	6. Possibilities

_I know i posted twice today, I was inspired and bored so, here you go. Hope you enjoy! Please review! More to come... hehe_

 _John awoke to blinding hospital lights and a pounding headache._

 _What happened? Am I alive? Is Sherlock alive? Where am I?_

 _Molly Hooper walked into the room, her hair tied in a tight ponytail, holding a clipboard with a soft smile on her face. "You're awake, um, I was told to answer your questions when you woke up, erm, if you're all right with that."_

 _John's pulse quickened as he sat up in his white hospital bed, wincing. "Um, yeah all right." John really wanted answers but was afraid of the answers. Exhaling, John asked, "Where am I?" Molly's reply- "Bart's hospital in London." John grinned, home. "I suppose that was pretty stupid of me since you're here." Molly grinned shyly, glad that John was relatively his normal self._

" _What happened when I blacked out?" His next question._

 _Molly took a deep breath. "Mycroft shot Kayzer from a helicopter, which was probably the gunshot you heard. The troops turned away from you and started shooting up at the copter, but Mycroft shot each and every one of them with his machine gun. Then they picked you up and flew you home." John let out a sigh of relief, Kayzer didn't kill Sherlock, at least not with that shot. Wait, how did Molly know he heard a gunshot? He shook it off._

 _Still avoiding the obvious question, John asked: "How long?"_

" _3 days."_

 _Exhale. Three days? I've been out for three days?_

 _Molly looked sympathetic, noticing John's uncomfortable state._

" _I suppose you might as well tell me," he said, clearing his throat and rubbing a hand through his hair._

 _Molly looked confused for a second, realizing John hadn't noticed the other man's unconscious form on the bed set a couple meters away from his own. She glanced at Sherlock's bed, then said "I'll come back in a couple minutes to give you your pain medication." John nodded thankfully then slowly turned his body. He could make out Sherlock's limp body, breathing. Alive. A knot in John's stomach untangled and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding._

 _Sherlock looked so… vulnerable, so human. John stood up, wincing but determined. He pulled a chair up to Sherlock's bedside and took the other man's hand in his, it was cold. John clutched it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Transferring warmth to the other man, John held Sherlock's hand to his heart._

" _Hear that mate? That's my heart, I'm alive, and so are you. We're in London, we're home, you're home. Please Sherlock, wake up." John started to sob. "Please… please…" John dropped Sherlock's hand and buried his face in his own. "I'm so sorry… please Sherlock, wake up…"_

 _But the man didn't respond. John crawled back to his bed and closed his wet eyes. When he woke up next, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were in the room, quietly talking to each other. Mrs. Hudson squealed when she saw John was awake, but her excitement quickly turned into sobs. "Oh John, John I was so worried," She dabbed at her eyes and smiled, brightening the room. John stood up, the pain in his head had mostly subsided to a dull ache. He embraced Mrs. Hudson and shook Lestrade's hand, grateful he had friends, grateful he was home._

 _John looked to his side and saw Sherlock standing happily, smiling. How? John ran over the man and wrapped his arms around his waist, looking up to see Sherlock, he was met with Moriarty's uncomfortable grin, "Did you miss me?"_

Then John woke up. He was in a cell. In a basement. A huddled form was beside John. Sherlock. John deduced he was in the hideout. He tried to sit up but Sherlock was on him quickly. He was murmuring "light concussion," his eyes bulging and hands trembling. John moaned, "Sherlock get off me." Sherlock blushed. "Sorry."

"its.. alright." To be honest it felt nice, the warmth, Sherlocks warmth. John's heart stopped when he saw Sherlock, even worse than before. More bruises, more panic, more blood. "You're really alive. You're really here." Sherlock whispered. "yeah.." John said, rubbing a hand through his hair. This triggered the memory of his dream. John started to sob and curled up in a ball.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock looked frantic. He crawled over the smaller man and pulled him into his arms. John melted into the physical affection Sherlock rarely showed. Sherlock didn't ask again, only comforted John by hugging him and rubbing small circles on his back.

Exhale. "What happened? Were you shot?" Sherlock smirked. "No.., one of the troops misfired and killed Kayzer. Then the rest of the troop beat that guy to death, then threw us in here."

John sighed, burying his face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock winced and John pulled back, "Sorry… Sorry.. I'm so sorry" "No it's alright, please, feel free." Sherlock invited John back into his warm embrace, forgetting the pain and focusing on John, the smell of his hair, his thin frame, his quick heartbeat.

"I thought you were dead." John muffled into Sherlock. "It's okay, I'm alive, I'm here." "Thanks." One word, one word was all it took for Sherlock to break down, and he fell backwards, entering a state of shock. He could hear John shouting his name but it seemed distant.

Why now? Sherlock thought. Why? I had so much to tell John, so much and now you choose to fail me? Sherlock felt disgusted with himself that he left John in that state but he simply could not wake up. He wandered the walls of his mind palace, and encountered his brother upon stumbling into a room. "Mycroft" Sherlock said without emotion. He started to slip away, right after his brother said "Hold on, I'm coming."

Sweaty and pale, Sherlock opened his eyes to see a frightened John. John was running his hands through Sherlock's dark curls, pleading for him to wake up. Caught in the act, John's face reddened and he turned away, composing himself.

"How long?" Sherlock asked. "4 hours." John replied. "I'm sorry" They both said at the same time. Smiling at each other and blushing, then Sherlock's face turned serious. "We need to get out of here. I had a dream, Mycroft said he was coming." John said that the guard came in and informed me that torture sessions start soon.

Sherlock winced, just now remembering the pain inflicted upon him just 24 hours ago. "I can't John… Not again… i… I can't. It hurts… I'll break…" As if on que, the guard walked in holding two pairs of shackles. Sherlock looked at John, scared. _Scared?_ They shared a look of sorrow on their way to the torture room. This room a bit further than the last. Each of them were strung up, cuffs biting at their wrists. John winced, Sherlock pitied him. Little did John know that was the least of his pain to come. One last pitying glance before the whip cracked and the screams begun.


	7. Home

Thanks for reviews, hope you're enjoying. Please comment and let me know what you think! It helps me lot and I'd really appreciate it.

The two men had to literally be dragged and pushed back into the jail room. This time they were separated, cells beside each other, but bars in-between. Neither of them had the strength or the energy to move from their position lying on the floor, bleeding from multiple places. Sherlock didn't know why this torture session was 10x worse than all the others combined. Probably because he had to listen to Johns agonizing screams alongside his.

Mycroft would come soon, wouldn't he? Why hasn't he yet? Sherlock sat up, pain ripping through his back like fire. Wincing, he sat up and whispered John's name. John grunted in response and, also wincing, sat up. As soon as John saw Sherlock's pleading eyes, tears running down his cheeks, he quickly moved to the bars separating them. Sherlock's hands were turning white, clutching the bars, looking stricken. John placed his hands on Sherlock's and Sherlock loosened his grip, clutching John's hands instead.

Trembling, Sherlock started speaking. "I think I'm dying." He trembled, murmering "Shock, blood loss, pain, can't take it anymore." John reacted, clutching Sherlock's hands harder. "Sherlock it will be fine. Hold on. Think of Baker street, think of home, mrs. Hudson-" Sherlock cut him off "John listen to me, don't speak. Please. I'm so sorry, you can't imagine how I feel, like I'm being ripped in two. Seeing you in pain kills me John, and it's my fault too. I'm so sorry this is all my fault, John you saved me and in return I give you torture. John please forgive me, know that if I could I would take all your pain away. If we get out of this… When we get out of this- home, come back, please, I… I need you. I understand if you don't want to, just please, think it over, please for me John."

John stared at him, not knowing where to start. "Sherlock, this isn't your fault. I decided to go after you, you couldn't have changed that. I care about you, I couldn't imagine living without you, I can't live without you, I've tried but I can't. Sherlock nothing will change that I care about you."

Sherlock started to sob. "I don't deserve you," he croaked. "We deserve each other," John replied. Both men thought _what does that mean, as friends? As more?_ But neither said anything. John held Sherlock's hand and they fell asleep, clutching onto each other through bars.

Sherlock couldn't move in the morning. Neither could John. They were strapped down on a table, faces down. Sherlock lay still while John struggled and received a punch in the head. "Stay still." A voice ordered. They couldn't turn their heads to look at each other. Sherlock cursed in his head as he heard the familiar sound of a blow torch. Silence. Footsteps. Pain. The heated blade entered Sherlocks rib cage from his back, narrowly missing his heart and the connecting arteries. He couldn't scream, neither could john. Silencing drug or something. The pain, the burning pain, unbearable pain.

The torturer pulled the blade out slowly. This was almost as painful as it going in. Almost. Footsteps walking to John. Sherlock tried to scream _No, not John, torture me! Leave John alone!_ But the man just smirked and began cutting up John's back in a series of scratchy lines. Back to Sherlock, the torturer had a high electric tazer. Electricity shot up Sherlock's leg, sending it into a fit of seizures. Over. And over. And over. He didn't tazer John, for an alarm went off somewhere above. The torturer left John and Sherlock strapped to the table. As soon as he left the room, a man Sherlock hadn't noticed in the corner of the room stood up and started untying them.

"Shh brother, it's alright. It will all be alright."

Soon enough, both men were untied, immobile yet freer. Mycroft spoke into a walkie talkie, calling in some insiders to help get John and Sherlock out and into the awaiting helicopter. It was too late by the time the real members realized what was wrong. They unsuccessfully shot at the helicopter, already lifting into the sky.

Bright lights hurt John's head as he opened his eyes. Lestrade was sitting in a chair at the back of the room. _Hospital_. John tried to move but was met with a screaming pain in his back and head. Lestrade looked up from his newspaper and smiled. "hey, you're up." "How long?" John asked. "2 weeks." John coughed. _Two weeks and I still feel like a piece of S***._ "Sherlock?" John whispered. Lestrade looked over. _This is strangely similar to my dream._

John turned to see unconscious Sherlock, peacefully sleeping. Somehow, after 2 weeks of sleep, John was still tired, and closed his eyes. One month of painful recovery alone. They had to move Sherlock to life support in another room. His condition got worse. John was worried. One month and John was able to leave. Sherlock was still unconscious but off life support now, slowly recovering. John didn't want to go to baker street without Sherlock, so he stayed with Molly. Molly helped him heal, gave him food, drove him in every day to sit by Sherlocks bed and hold his hand. Every day he asked Sherlock to wake up. Every day he was met with silence.

One night John was at the hospital, the heart rate monitor sped up, slightly but significantly. John spoke more urgently now. "Sherlock wake up. Sherlock you're home. Sherlock I need you. Sherlock please."

"Please" tears streamed down his face, dripping onto Sherlock's arm. At this, Sherlock's arm began to twitch. John looked up hopefully, seeing Sherlock's eyes fluttering open, stiff from stillness. Sherlocks voice was a hoarse whisper. "John." John cried.

A week later Sherlock was sitting on the couch in 221B baker street, resting his leg, which was still has spasm fits, drinking a cup of mrs Hudsons tea and watching telly with John. John wasn't paying attention to the telly though. He was staring at the marvelous man in front of him. His Sherlock, his best friend, his strong, not-heartless, beautiful Sherlock. John blushed, clearing his throat, asked Sherlock if he wanted something to eat. Sherlock shook his head politely.

"okay, well if you don't need anything else I'll be heading to bed." He started to walk away when Sherlock said "Stay." John didn't have to be told twice. He bent over to sit in his chair when Sherlock said another word. "Here." John nodded and sat next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock reached for john's hand and John let him, intertwining hands sitting on the couch. Sherlock continued his blank expression at the screen. John cleared his throat, they were too far apart. John scooted closer to Sherlock, feeling his warmth against his side. John's head was leaning on Sherlock's shoulder, a million unspoken words between them.

Sherlock looked at the handsome human curled up next to him, a warmth glowed inside of him. This felt right, despite the pain still coursing through him, it felt right.

John spoke, "Never leave me behind ever again."

"I wouldn't think of it for a second." Sherlock replied, kissing John's head. John felt heat rushing up to his face, it felt good. The flat mates fell asleep together on the couch.

John woke first. A smile crept to his face, still in the same position he fell asleep last night. He didn't want it to end. This was what he wanted. No, he wanted _more._ He would gladly take this though.

John stayed still, enjoying the contact with Sherlock until the other man woke up, also grinning. "Good morning John."

"Good morning."

"Breakfast?"

"Starving."

They went to Angelos, then to the morgue to see Molly. It seemed as though the pain was in the past, both felt fine, but the scars remained to remind them of the terrifying experience.

Time went on and life resumed, Sherlock solved Lestrade's cases and john blogged about it. Their feelings for each other kept growing in secret, each thinking the other was too good for them

It was spring now, almost three months since the incident. John was reading a book and Sherlock was looking through his microscope. John wasn't really reading though, his mind was too focused on that hell of a man sitting in the kitchen. His strong jawline, his stormy eyes, his flat chest, curly hair, defined hips, God I just want to caress his face, feel his lips, stare into those eyes, John mentally slapped himself. He's too god for you, he deserves better, he doesn't even like people, or contact, he doesn't _feel_ those types of emotions. John returned to his book

Sherlock caught himself staring at the doctor more than once. John had such strong shoulders, soft eyes, sandy blond hair that was screaming for Sherlock's fingers, He just wanted to kiss John, run his fingers through his hair, feel him, smell him. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. He's too good for you, he's not gay, he's just your friend.


	8. want

Probably last chapter unless you have any ideas, leave in comments. Please review!

Oblivious to each other's feelings for the other, the want just grew. A couple days later on a case, Sally noticed them stealing glances at the other. "Oh just kiss why don't you. It's obvious you both want to."

They both blushed, and Sherlock responded. "Please, Donovan, we are at a crime scene. This is no place for unnecessary human emotions." Sally smirked and walked away.

Back at the flat, John sat in his chair while Sherlock sat in his steepled thinking pose.

"I think we should talk." John said.

Sherlock paled, afraid that his feelings would be turned away, rejected and unwanted. "Okay" was all he said.

"Sherlock, was what Donovan said true?"

Sherlock's heart quickened, palms sweaty. "Why?"

"Is it?" John was standing now, standing over Sherlock, his eyes a mask. "Yes. But why would that mat-" Sherlock's statement was cut off with John's lips connecting with his.

Surprised at the sudden rush, Sherlock froze. John pulled back, embarrassed. "S.. Sor-" But he didn't get a chance to finish.

Sherlock grabbed his doctor and pulled him on top of him, pulling him closer, initiating a heated kiss. Both men had no idea how the other longed for this. Sherlock pulled back, snickering. "I guess Donovan was right about you too." John murmured, "mmm, cleverer than she looks eh?" They both snickered and gently now embraced the other, and closed their eyes.

John stepped out of the shower the next morning, pulled on his pants and was about to pull on his shirt when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "Oh, erm, um, sorry." Sherlock stammered but did not move away. His eyes glanced over John's muscled chest, his gaze intensified on John's arms where long scars remained. His eyes shined with unshed tears. John noticed what he was looking at and quickly pulled on his shirt and jumper. "Sherlock it's fine, I'm okay, it's okay." Sherlock stepped toward John and pulled up his sleeve revealing the scars. "I… I did this to you… Oh my God." "No, Sherlock, I did this to myself." Sherlock fell into John's arms, sobbing.

"How could you ever forgive me, I can't even forgive myself, John you're better off without me… I… I have to go… for you…"

Sherlock started away when John turned him around and kissed him passionately. "Sherlock Holmes. I did this because you left once. What do you think would happen if you left again. I love you and you promised to never leave me behind again. Ever."

Tears ran down Sherlock's face as he leaned into John. His John, forever his loyal John. He never wanted to let go.


End file.
